Sometimes talking about it that can help
by NairobiWonders
Summary: Its done - last chapter updated! Set after the Poison Pen episode, starts with an evening meal evening meal and then, well, this took on a life of its own. Thank you for reading! As always reviews are more than welcome - its a great way to learn.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock walked through the front door, his body and spirit spent. He dropped his gym bag down by coatrack and was immediately greeted by Watson. He summoned all the energy he had left to put up a normal front for her.

"There you are. I texted you a couple of times and got no answer." She tried to keep her tone from betraying her concern.

"Sorry. Must have dropped my phone in the bag and never checked it." She knew this was a convenient lie but she wasn't going to challenge it.

"I wanted to see what you wanted for dinner." She looked him over evaluating his physical and mental condition.

"Not really hungry," he realized she was scrutinizing him and purposefully put a bounce to his step and comically scrunched his face as he walked past her.

"Well you're going to have to eat 'cause I ordered for you. The new pub down the street delivers so you're either having shepherd's pie or chicken curry. The food got here a few minutes before you, so it's good and hot." She had cleared off a work table and was opening containers and sorting out utensils as she talked.

He watched her, aware of what she was doing. Comfort food. Tonight he wouldn't argue. It was pleasant to come home to someone who cared about his well being. She turned to find him staring at her, their eyes engaged as she handed him his plate.

"Thank you Watson," he said with a small nod.

Understanding the breadth of the unspoken gratitude expressed behind the verbal, her eyes softened as she acknowledged him. She turned toward the table to prepare her plate while Holmes moved to sit on the couch. She was worried about him. This week had been emotionally difficult for him. The information he had shared about his childhood abuse had left her unsettled and upset but with a better understanding of the persona he presented to the outside world. The tough cynical crust protected the inner being who had been and was still being brutally bullied. Watson cursed Moriarty's name under her breath and headed to sit with Sherlock.

Shoes off, he sat cross legged on the couch. Watson sat next to him, giving him enough room so he felt comfortable.

Between mouthfuls of her curry, Watson turned to him and said, "Mmm, I didn't tell you. I had a nice chat with Mistress Felicity, while you were busy at the crime scene earlier this week."

Sherlock stopped, fork halfway to his mouth, "Mmmm, really?" He wasn't sure what to make of this revelation.

"Mm hmm. I learned a few things." she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

Watson was always surprising. He had thought her puritanical when it came to the lifestyle that Mistress F lived, but apparently not. That is what he liked about Watson, always willing to learn. Sherlock just hoped what she learned was not about him. "Care to share?" he said innocently.

"Perhaps... Some day... Depends on how well you behave yourself..." She gave him a raised eyebrow glance. He broke into a smile. She was happy to see him begin to settle into a lighter mood.

"If I give you a spoonful of my curry, can I try your shepherd's pie?" She held up a big gloppy spoon of curry in his direction.

He stared at the spoon trying to evaluate the meaning of the offering.

"Come on, yes or no, it's beginning to drip." She said impatiently.

Staring straight into her eyes he leaned forward, mouth wide open and took in the spoon and all its contents in one movement leaving it clean and Watson slightly breathless. He took the spoon from her hand, scooped it into his meal and placed the heaping mound of food in front of her mouth. She stared into his eyes, a slight smile twinkling in them, as she took in the spoonful whole much like he had done. They sat, spoon between them, mesmerized for a second.

Sherlock broke the trance, plunged the utensil still in his hand into her curry and took another taste. "Mmm...That is good," he taunted her, his mouth full of her dinner.

"Hey! That's mine," she took her spoon back and retaliated by consuming a glob of his potatoes and peas. Silverware was brandished and a joyous mock battle over their dinners began.

Finally, Watson laughed and called out, "Truce! Truce!" She was sitting back against the sofa cushions protecting her meal as he kneeled on the sofa beside her, fork at the ready. "How about we trade off?"

Holmes considered the proposal and backed down, "Deal" he said as they cautiously exchanged plates, "but you started it," he said in his best six year old tone.

"Did not." She muttered.

He enjoyed these moments with Watson. For all her adultness, she could be as much of a child as he was and he felt privileged that she shared this side of herself with him. They continued eating in amicable silence punctuated by the occasional exchange of "did" "did not."

His meal finished, Sherlock got up and stoked the fire. Warm light flared around him as he sat on the ottoman, staring into the flames, lost in thought.

Watson saw the shell once again slowly begin to form around her companion. She had ministered to the wounds of others long before she became a doctor. She was a caregiver by nature not just by training. Her friend was in pain, she needed to help.

"Sherlock, do you want to talk about it?"

He turned toward Watson, knowing he needed to share this with her but not knowing where to begin.

She continued, "I know this week was difficult for you, churning things that you'd prefer lie dormant." Watson waited for a response.

Sherlock spoke softly, "Do you think it's possible to truly know someone?"

Watson thought, "I don't know. It seems most of us don't even know ourselves or what we are capable of. But I do know we have to try. Where would we be if I had walked away from the half-naked, crazy recovering addict who professed his love for me at first sight." She smiled at the memory of their first meeting.

He needed to share this with her, get her input and her support but he knew her well enough to fear it would upset her even more than it had him. He knew her as well as she knew him. There was no artifice between them. He stood up, walked back to the sofa and reached into his pants pocket. Sherlock pulled out the slightly crumpled envelope, folded in half, sporting Newgate as the sole return address. Without a word, he handed it to Watson and sat down next to her.

Her body tensed. She sat up and slightly turned away from him as she pulled the letter from its sheath. Watson hardened and a cold chill went through her as she read the woman's unctuous poisoned words.

She turned back to him, "When did you get this?"

Sherlock was sitting forward, elbows resting on his knees, with the look of a defeated schoolboy. "A few weeks ago, shortly after we were hacked."

A hundred questions marched through her head, "Why didn't you tell me? Have you answered her?" He shook his head, she continued, "Are you going to answer her?"

He looked at her empty-eyed, no response came forth.

Watson tamped down the anger and the hatred she felt for Moriarty, "You do see what she's doing, Sherlock? She is attempting to cut you from the herd, isolate you again, preying on what she perceives your weakness is. She's coming back for seconds. "

He gave her a long hard stare. "I'm afraid she's trying to do much worse," he said, the melancholy in his voice painful for her to hear. "I'm afraid she's coming after you." Watson stared at him, trying to understand. He continued softly, "You, ... you are my weakness. By hurting you she knows she would tear the heart out of me."

Tears welled up in both their eyes. She leaned her shoulder into him and he instinctively placed a protective arm around her. "I received that letter on a day ... " he stopped, took a breath, "... on the day you went out with your Internet dweeb. I was uhm, ... not happy ... at the prospect of losing ... you, your companionship." He took his arm from around her shoulders bringing it forward on to his knee. Watson placed her hand on his as he continued. "I wondered what it was you needed to find ... away from me. I know, I'm conceited, self absorbed, insensitive ..." A tear gleamed and threatened to drop down Watson's cheek; she squeezed his hand.

"And then, this, this letter arrived. I came to realize this was no coincidence. There are no coincidences where Moriarty is involved."

"But how would she know any of this? Are we under surveillance?" she whispered.

"I'm not sure but your communications with that ... that ... man were electronic, and we had just been hacked. She had an extensive operation at her disposal prior to incarceration. For all we know he could be one of her minions." He fell silent. His hand encircled hers. They sat and stared at the fire.

Watson sorted her thoughts as best she could and pulled herself together. The last few minutes had set her world on its ear. Not all of it was unpleasant but it was a lot to process. Finally, she spoke, "Whether she's coming after me or you makes no difference. She's bent on destroying both of us but really she can't. Not as long as we stand together. We need to be completely honest with each other so that no hole is left between us where she can slither in."

"Do you think I should answer her? he asked.

Watson's response was immediate, "No. Let her stew in her own vile juices until she drowns in them."

Sherlock smiled at her, "You are vicious."

"Someone told me recently I should fight without mercy." She looked up into his face. Sherlock sat back into the sofa cushions as did Watson, shoulders touching, hands still held. Physical closeness was a new venture. Tonight it felt right to both of them.

"We'll need a plan of action. I've been sweeping the brownstone regularly for bugs ..." Sherlock was back in his element plotting their next move and Watson was there at his side providing input and advice.

As she listened, Joan wriggled up a bit against Sherlock and tucked her feet underneath her. Watson could almost see Moriarty writhing in her cell.


	2. Chapter 2

He ran, sprinting up the subway stairs in a blind panic. People were pushed out of his way. The image on his phone was unimaginably horrendous. He was nauseated and panicked and he kept running. Feelings rushed at him: loss, sadness, excruciating pain and guilt that he had not been there to stop him or her or them. A pool of blood in Watson's bedroom. A pool of blood in Watson's bedroom! A pool of blood just like Irene's. He kept running. Moriarty was laughing at him somewhere deep in Newgate. Sherlock ran faster. He had called and texted Watson and received no response. NYPD was on their way. Holmes reached their front door. His hands shook as he tried to catch is breath, fumbled with his keys. His vision blurred from sweat and tears as he finally unlocked the door and banged it open and did the same with the next door.

"Watson!" his voice was raw and hoarse and filled the whole brownstone with his despair. "Watson!" he repeated as he tore up the stairs to her room.

A freshly showered Joan had just finished dressing when she heard the downstairs doors bang open. She walked toward her bedroom door and when she heard the sound of Sherlock's voice desperately yelling for her, she panicked and ran towards the staircase. Something was horribly wrong. Panic rose inside her at the sound of his voice.

Watson saw Holmes running up the steps at the same time he saw her. Relief bathed his face. He charged at her with such power that she just stood there unsure what to do but ready to receive the full force of him as he barreled towards her.

Holmes felt confused and relieved and elated at the sight of her. On her face he saw only concern for him of all things. "Sherlock what is it?" was all she managed to say before he had enveloped her so completely in his arms she seemed to disappear inside him. He burrowed his face into her neck and Watson held on tight. She slipped one hand beneath his jacket and grasped at his shirt, while holding the back of his head with the other. Not knowing what was wrong, Joan attempted to comfort him by murmuring repeatedly that he'd be fine, she was there, it would be alright.

When he could finally draw a breath, he raised his head, took her by the shoulders and inspected her, his questions flew at her: had she been hurt, was she alright, who else had been here. She answered his questions quickly - she was fine, there was no else here, she wasn't hurt. Finally she took his face into her hands, and forced him to look at her, "Sherlock. I am fine. What's happened? Are you alright!"

He leaned his cheek into her hand, brought his hand up to cover hers for a second and gently brought her hand down to his chest and held it there. Staring into her eyes calmed him, his breathing became less jagged, as he regained his composure. "I ... I received an image, more than likely from Moriarty," he stopped and took a breath, he couldn't look at her as he said the words, "a pool of blood ... on, on the floor of your bedroom." Joan's whole body tensed when she realized the shock this must have been for him. Her mouth opened but no words came out.

"I called and texted and you... You never answered and... I, I feared the worst." His voice was barely a whisper. His eyes finally rose to meet hers. The sadness in his eyes was overwhelming. She bent her head forward onto his chest and moving her hands around to his back and clasping him tightly to her. His lips met the top of her head and they held each other in silence, their breathing slowing and synchronizing.

Downstairs the unlocked doors were opened quickly and loudly as Captain Gregson and Detective Bell followed by what appeared to half of the NYPD entered the brownstone.

"Holmes! ... Holmes!" Gregson shouted as he entered.

"Up here, Captain" Sherlock responded from the top of the stairs where he and Watson had just disentangled themselves. "She's alright. It seems we've been the victims of a cruel hoax." He found her hand at his side and held on.

Gregson ordered his guys to do a quick run through the brownstone to make sure all was in order. He and Bell quickly went up to talk to Watson and Holmes.

"I'm fine. There's been no one here but me." Watson said and went on to explain she'd been in the shower and had no idea that Sherlock had called. Holmes turned to speak to Gregson.

"Captain, the image. It is most certainly Watson's room. The ... the blood pool must have been digitally added but the photograph of the room implies some one was here to take it." Sherlock pulled out his phone, pulled up the image. He and Bell walked into Joan's room followed by Joan and Gregson. Sherlock proceeded to inspect the angles. He avoided showing the photo to Watson but she peeked around his elbow. The image startled her.

"This was taken today. See my sweater there on the bed, it's in exactly the same place, as is the afghan on the chair."

Holmes looked up at the ceiling. "The camera is ..." he walked and peered and looked up again, "there!" he said pointing to a spot overhead. "Captain, if one of your men would be so kind as to go to the roof and check about 14 feet due east from my apiary, I believe they'll find a minuscule camera that has been drilled in place there." Bell took the job himself and went to find the camera. "It may be little comfort," Sherlock turned and spoke to Watson, "but at least the physical boundaries of our home were not actually breached."

The camera found, they spent several hours combing the rest of the building for other such devices. Enough food was ordered in to feed them all as they continued working. Bell and Gregson did not leave until close to midnight when they were sure about the safety of their comrades.

Quiet settled on the brownstone. Sherlock performed a check of all the windows and doors while Joan went upstairs to change. He was still very much ill at ease.

Joan came out of the bathroom in her pj's to find Sherlock standing by the door, waiting for her. He too had changed into what passed for sleeping attire for him.

He looked at her seriously and calmly said, "I'm sleeping in your room tonight."

Joan saw the exhaustion and guilt that hung on him. An old wound had been reopened. "Alright," was all she said as she turned towards her bedroom. He stood surprised. He had an argument fully prepared to convince her to agree to his request for his peace of mind if nothing else. Not needed. He shut his mouth and followed her.

Watson turned down the blankets on the bed as Sherlock walked over to his chair. "What are you doing?" she asked him.

"This is where I always sit when I ..." He blinked and stopped short of admitting how often he came in to watch her sleep.

Watson suppressed a smile catching his almost admission of something she had long been aware of. "Don't be foolish. Get in the bed." She climbed in expecting him to follow.

"Watson, I, I don't ..." he stammered as he came to the empty side of the bed.

"Sherlock! I'm tired. Get in." She turned off the bedside lamp. "I trust you with my life, surely I can trust you in my bed."

He climbed in, adding softly, "Yes. But I'm not sure I trust myself." Joan thought that might have been a compliment but with him she was never sure.

Sherlock laid flat on his back, a good distance away from her, awkwardly glancing sideways at Joan who was on her side facing him.

He spoke, "I'm thinking it may not have been from Moriarty. The photo ..."

Joan adjusted herself so she could get a better view of him. "I've been wondering the same thing," she said. "It feels a little heavy handed for her doesn't it?"

Sherlock' s discomfort fell away. He turned on his side to face her, "Exactly! Moriarty doesn't warn. She would have struck full force, perhaps not killing but definitely hurting you and by proxy ... me."

They settled down for several minutes of "pillow talk" - an intense dissection of the situation and possible avenues to pursue tomorrow. The strangeness of sharing the bed fell by the wayside. They faced each other and continued to talk intermittently until Joan realized he had stopped answering. She inched a little closer and lightly placed her hand on his. Even in sleep he responded to her touch and held on to her. Comforted, her breathing slowed and she joined him in sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The bedroom was quiet, dimly lit from the glow of the city lights. Cold. Watson eyes fluttered open, her hand went to pull up the blanket that had slipped off of them. Her companion slept next to her, his face inches from hers, smooshed into the pillow, mouth slightly open and crooked. They were on their sides facing each other much as they were when they fell asleep except they were closer. Sherlock's arm rested on her waist, one of her legs had slipped between his. Joan brought the blanket up and covered herself as well as him. As she did, her hand strayed to his face and she took advantage of his sleeping state to gently touch his cheek. In the silence of the night, she could admit to herself how much she cared for him. On impulse Watson moved towards him, not sure of her intent other than being closer to him. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and met her gaze. With the smallest of movement their lips met in a short gentle kiss and then found themselves again and stayed a little longer. She gradually pulled away and moved her head onto his shoulder. Sherlock rested his head on hers, wrapped both arms around her and held on. Her legs curled around his. He sighed a contented sigh as she snuggled in and slept.

The next time she woke up it was to the far off sound of his phone ringing. Light flooded her bedroom and Sherlock lay sprawled on his stomach across half the bed, one of his legs casually thrown over her. She was on her back, an arm covering her eyes the other dumped not very delicately, across her partner's head.

"Sherlock your phone's ringing," she tapped his head with the back of her hand.

"Yes." He said, face still on the pillow. "It's downstairs. Would you be a lamb and run get it ..."

She snorted and said "Surely m'lord as soon as hell finishes freezing over," and rolled over taking the majority of the blankets with her.

"It's alright whoever called me will shortly be calling you." Her phone rang.

"You are so clever," she said sarcastically. "Hello. ... Yes, he's right here. Hold on."

She whispered, "Take it, it's Bell."

Sherlock sat up with a grunt, "Yes... I see. ... Watson and I will be there."

"Where will we be? Did he have any information about the camera or who sent the photo?" Watson was up out of bed and reaching for her sweater.

Sherlock was up and heading to the bedroom door. "I assume that's what the

captain wishes to discuss with us." He turned, looked uncomfortably at her and tried to say something but was having difficulty. "That bed is too comfortable. I can see why you linger in the mornings." He moved as if to leave but turned back to look at her, "I ... um..." he pointed to the bed and moved his finger back and forth, and finally just looked at Watson hoping she would understand. Watson nodded, gave him a hint of a smile and that was enough for both of them. Sherlock gave her one of those lingering gazes he reserved only for her, bobbed his head a bit and turned, calling over his shoulder, "I'll start breakfast. Don't tarry."

She had been afraid their night together would make the day uncomfortable for both of them. Although really nothing at all occurred but a hug and a kiss, or maybe two. But once they left the bedroom, solving the mystery at hand, became their sole focus.

They arrived on time at the precinct to meet with Gregson and Bell. Both men looked particularly grim and Joan was asked to wait outside the Captain's office while they talked to Sherlock. Holmes protested, "Surely whatever information you have, Watson has every right to hear." Gregson wouldn't meet her gaze, ignored Sherlock's comment and had him step into his office. Watson sat outside intently watching what little she could see of them and trying to read their body language.

Gregson and Bell presented Holmes with a file of documents. "I know this sounds impossible and I want you to hear us out before you fly off the handle. But every piece of evidence we found points to Joan having done this herself." Holmes' face scrunched and morphed into a series of looks that told the Captain he thought that was sheer idiocy and didn't believe him for a minute. But he kept quiet while Gregson continued. "The camera we pulled from the roof, Watson's fingerprints were on it. The image that was sent to you came from an email account of Joan's, one she hasn't used for a long time, but hers nonetheless. She accessed it the day before the image was sent and then again, when she sent it to you. The phone from which the image was sent, we traced it back to her as well. It's a throwaway purchased in Chelsea two days ago. We were able to trace it, the clerk remembered her, ID'd her from a photo. The image was created on her laptop. The metadata clearly points to it." Holmes was carefully inspecting each piece of paper and evidence presented to him. "Have you noticed any odd behavior from her as of late? Did you guys have some kind of spat or argument that would cause her to do something like this?"

"Captain, this is absurd. Watson is not the type of person to do something of this nature. If she were upset with me, she would tell me. ... Or bounce a basketball off my face." Gregson and Bell look at each other.

Bell piped in, "So there is a history of violence?"

"What? No! It was ... I hit her first with ... its not what it sounds like. You are wrong. There is something missing here, something that we are not seeing."

Gregson reserved his most damaging evidence for last. "We found the phone used to send the image. Her fingerprints, possible DNA sample we're waiting on." Sherlock opened the evidence bag to examine the phone. The faint smell of Joan's perfume made his heart clench.

Watson was brought in and confronted with all the evidence. The look on Gregson and Bell's faces was one of embarrassment and pain. Joan was a friend. Sherlock sat back vacant and numb. Joan was confused and denied vehemently all that she was accused of. More than anything she was wounded that Sherlock did not speak up for her. In the end, Watson looked Holmes square in the eyes and asked, "You know me better than anyone, do you really believe I am capable of this? Of hurting you in this way."

Sherlock stared back blankly at her, speaking without emotion in his voice, "Is it possible to truly know another person?"


	4. Chapter 4

Watson was brought into the office and confronted with all the evidence. The look on Gregson and Bell's faces was one of embarrassment and pain. Joan was a friend. Sherlock sat back vacant and numb. Joan was confused and denied vehemently all that she was accused of. More than anything she was wounded that Sherlock did not speak up for her. In the end, Watson looked Holmes square in the eyes and asked, "You know me better than anyone, do you really believe I am capable of this? Of hurting you in this way."

Sherlock stared back blankly at her, speaking without emotion in his voice, "Is it possible to truly know another person?"

Watson looked at Holmes' face, the words he used registered and she brought herself under control as Sherlock continued, "The phone we recovered, your phone, carried the faintest whiff of Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue. Your preferred scent Joan."

Holmes, in three sentences, communicated to Watson what she needed to know. He let her know Moriarty was the source of all this with the quote from her letter. Sherlock knew Watson had stopped wearing Light Blue and started using her autumnal scent over a week ago. He had even uncharacteristically remarked how, as an Englishman, he found her new fragrance, Earl Grey and Cucumber by Jo Malone, rather intoxicating. Joan had been wearing it ever since. The game of hidden meanings also let her know they were being watched. She shot him a quick glance, shook her head and uncharacteristically did not challenge his statements. An internally relieved Sherlock registered her understanding of his message.

She became aware that Gregson was talking to her. "... Holmes isn't pressing charges and we are dropping the investigation... " Watson played her part. "I can not believe that the three of you, of all people, believe this. I wouldn't ever ..." and she teared up and dropped her head to her hands. She wondered if Bell and Gregson were aware of what was going on as she lifted her head and wiped away tears.

Watson crying, even if it was play acting, was too much for Sherlock to bear. He stood up abruptly, "I would prefer you vacate the brownstone as soon as you reasonably can." He turned and exited the office.

Watson walked out of the police station unsure what her next move should be. She assumed she was being watched. She found a corner of the city where she could sit away from prying eyes and think.

Sherlock, upon returning to the brownstone, through discreet observation, discovered their home was bugged. One of the NYPD officers that helped sweep the house the night before must have belonged to Moriarty, surreptitiously planting surveillance devices rather than removing them.

He kept himself busy after that with packing some of Watson's things in a valise, reading, scratching out notes and agitatedly pacing while he waited for the other shoe to drop. The doorbell being leaned upon made him jump and irritated him even further. He brusquely opened the door to find a messenger with a delivery for him. Holmes signed for and accepted the package, and immediately slammed the door shut on the tip-expecting courier.

The package had no address but he knew who it was from. In it he found a small hand-painted replica of The Cure of Folly, by Hieronymus Bosch, with a hand written note from Moriarty. "A gift for you Sherlock. Consider this an early birthday present. Perhaps we can stand in front of the original work and discuss. Hoping to see you soon. Jamie M."

He admired the replica. Evil as she may be, the woman did exquisite work. His birthday was within days, November 15; with Watson out of the way, she was staking her claim to him. Sherlock propped the painting up against a computer monitor and pulled out a clean sheet of paper onto which he furtively scribbled.

The front door opening tore his attention away from his work. Watson stood in the foyer. They stared at one another. Sherlock flashed his eyes at her quickly to stop her betraying their game. He spoke first "I've packed some of your clothes and things. They are there by the stairs. You can make arrangements for the rest later." She stood immobile. Watson knew his ire was false but still it hurt.

"And here," Sherlock grabbed an open book from the table, "a parting gift for you, a copy of John Donne's poetry. Let me bookmark this particular poem for your enjoyment on the deceitful nature of your gender." He grabbed the piece of paper he had been writing on folded it and set it in the book. Sherlock thrust it in her hand, hoping she understood.

Joan took the book and leaned into Holmes, gave him a small peck on the cheek. Playing his part well, he stood immobile. "Good-bye," she said as she grabbed the suitcase and left.

Watson arranged to meet Bell for lunch in mid-town in the noisiest bistro she could find. The page of information Holmes had given her was neatly folded and sitting in the palm of her hand. When Bell joined her at the table, she gently placed a hand on his chest and leaned in for a hello kiss. Bell was startled but quickly realized what Joan had done. "Reverse pickpocketing" another skill to add to the Watson resume.

Watson and Holmes had not been allowed to communicate in any manner for the past three days. Sherlock kept himself busy by running through old case files, pestering Bell and preparing for his pseudo-trip to Spain. He assumed his actions were under constant watch. Moriarty was nothing if not thorough. Sherlock found himself surprised by the feeling of loss he was experiencing. He knew Watson would be back soon but the need to see her now, talk to her now became overwhelming by the second night. Sherlock spent the night in her room, sitting in his chair, staring at an empty bed.

Watson took up residence at the Bentley. She might as well enjoy her solitary confinement. Her withdrawal from Sherlock was equally intense. She missed his snarky comments, his challenges to her intellect, the excitement of working together through their findings. She wanted to talk to him, to see his face contort in concentration. Watson told herself, enjoy the silence, she'd see him soon enough but she couldn't. She found herself that second night staring out her window at the lights of Brooklyn.

The NY Dept. of Corrections received Holmes' information about Moriarty's planned escape. Her letter had invited Sherlock to meet her in Madrid, at the Prado, in front of the Bosch, on his birthday. Her plan to escape the grey of Newgate had to be activated within the next few days. Extra security was set in place but she was given room to move so that when her scheme was set in motion not only was she stopped but her men and women, guards and inmates, who were working for her were also apprehended.

When the Captain gave Sherlock the all clear message his first call was to Watson. She picked up the phone before the first ring and they spent a good hour verbally pummeling each other with information, personal and professional. They arranged for him to come by her hotel, go out to a celebratory dinner and then head home. His second call was to arrange for a thorough electronic cleansing of the brownstone. Every hidden piece of audio and video equipment was removed, except for his, of course.

Sherlock dressed in his best dark suit, black shirt and indigo tie knocked on Watson's hotel door. He was fidgeting with his pockets and putting on his best nonchalant look for Watson, when the door opened and Mrs. Watson greeted him. "Sherlock! How nice to see you. Come in." His face momentarily registered confusion and disappointment but he summoned up his best manners and cordially greeted Joan's mom.

"Joan will be right out. Don't you look nice. She said you two are going out to dinner. I just came by to see how she was ..." Mrs. Watson kept talking and he just smiled and nodded wondering what was taking his partner so long.

Joan came out of the bathroom and Sherlock stopped breathing. She wore a deep blue satin dress that caught every nuance of her movement as she walked. All Watson could see when she walked into the room were his eyes, large and warm and taking her in. She moved towards him. He had shaved and put on his best tie for her, the tie she had given him.

Mary Watson snapped them out of their trance. "Don't you two make quite the pair!" They both looked at her and the awkwardness set in. They took a small step away from each other and looked away. Mrs. Watson, realizing her third wheel status, said her good byes and wished them a pleasant evening.

They stood in silence, eyes locked. They had only been apart for a few days but it had felt an eternity. All the things he had wanted to talk to her about fell away.

She spoke first, "How about we stay here and order room service?"

Sherlock answered, "Your mum's not coming back, is she?"

Watson shook her head no.

He set his mouth in a thin line and nodded yes. Sherlock extended his hand out towards her. In a blur of dark blue satin and the scent of Earl Grey perfume, they descended on the pillowy softness of the bed.

Sometimes talking isn't necessary.


End file.
